Truckers (23 page)

He also looked very human. Without the terrible light, without the shadows of the Store at night, Prices Slashed was just another human.

On the other hand . . .

No, it was too complicated. And there were more important things to do.

“Come on,” he said. “Let's get back. I think we should get as far away as possible as quickly as we can.”

“I shall ask Arnold Bros (est. 1905) to guide us and lead us,” said Gurder firmly.

“Yes, good,” said Masklin. “Good idea. And why not? But now we really must—”

“Has his Sign not said
If You Do Not See What You Require, Please Ask
?” said Gurder.

Masklin took him firmly by the arm. Everyone needs something, he thought. And you never know.

“I pull this string,” said Angalo, indicating the thread over his shoulder and the way it disappeared down into the depths of the cab, “and the leader of the steering wheel left-pulling team will know I want to turn left. Because it's tied to his arm. And this other one goes to the right-pulling team. So we won't need so many signals, and Dorcas can concentrate on the gears and things. And the brakes. After all,” he added, “we can't always rely on a wall to run into when we want to stop.”

“What about lights?” said Masklin. Angalo beamed.

“Signal for the lights,” he said to the nome with flags. “What we did was, we tied threads to switches—”

There was a click. A big metal arm moved across the windshield, clearing away the raindrops. They watched it for a while.

“Doesn't really
illuminate
much, does it?” said Grimma.

“Wrong switch,” muttered Angalo. “Signal to leave the wipers on but put on the
lights
.”

There was some muffled argument below them, and then another click. Instantly the cab was filled with the dull throbbing sound of a human voice.

“It's all right,” said Angalo. “It's only the radio. But it's not the
lights
, tell Dorcas.”

“I know what a radio is,” said Gurder. “You don't have to tell me what a radio is.”

“What is it, then?” said Masklin, who didn't know.

“Twenty-Nine Ninety-Five, Batteries Extra,” said Gurder. “With AM, FM, And Auto-Reverse Cassette. Bargain Offer, Not To Be Repeated.”

“Am and Fum?” said Masklin.

“Yes.”

The radio voice droned on.

“—ggest fire in the town's history, with firemen coming in from as far afield as Newtown. Meanwhile, police are searching for one of the store's trucks, last seen leaving the building just before—”

“The lights. The
lights
. Third switch along,” said Angalo. There was a few seconds' pause, and then the alley in front of the truck was bathed in white light.

“There should be two, but one got broken when we left the Store,” said Angalo. “Well, then, are we ready?”

“—Anyone seeing the vehicle should contact Blackbury police on—”

“And turn off the radio,” said Angalo. “That mooing gets on my nerves.”

“I wish we could understand it,” said Masklin. “I'm sure they're fairly intelligent, if only we could understand it.”

He nodded at Angalo. “Okay,” he said. “Let's go.”

It seemed much better this time. The truck scraped along the wall for a moment, then came free and moved gently down the narrow alley toward the lights at the far end. As the truck came out from between the dark walls, Angalo called for the brakes, and it stopped with only a mild jolt.

“Which way?” he said. Masklin looked blank.

Gurder fumbled through the pages of the diary. “It depends on which way we're going,” he said. “Look for signs saying, er, Africa. Or Canada, perhaps.”

“There's a sign,” said Angalo, peering through the rain. “It says Town Center. And then there's an arrow and it says—” He squinted. “Onny—”

“One Way Street,” murmured Grimma.

“Town Center doesn't sound like a good idea,” said Masklin.

“Can't seem to find it on the map, either,” said Gurder.

“We'll go the other way, then,” said Angalo, hauling on a thread.

“And I'm not sure about One Way Street,” said Masklin. “I think you should only go along it one way.”

“Well, we are,” said Angalo smugly. “We're going
this
way.”

The truck rolled out of the side road and bumped neatly onto the pavement.

“Let's have second gear,” said Angalo. “And a bit more go-faster pedal.” A car swerved slowly out of the truck's way, its horn sounding—to nome ears—like the lost wail of a foghorn.

“Shouldn't be allowed on the road, drivers like that,” said Angalo. There was a thump, and the remains of a streetlight bounced away. “And they put all this stupid stuff in the roadway, too,” he added.

“Remember to show consideration for other road users,” said Masklin severely.

“Well, I am, aren't I? I'm not running into them, am I?” said Angalo. “What was that thump?”

“Some bushes, I think,” said Masklin.

“See what I mean? Why do they put things like that in the road?”

“I think the road is more sort of over to your right,” said Gurder.

“And it moves around, as well,” said Angalo sullenly, pulling the right-hand string slightly.

It was nearly midnight, and Blackbury was not a busy town after dark. Therefore there was no one rushing to run into the truck as it slid out of Alderman Surley Way and roared up John Lennon Avenue, a huge and rather battered shape under the yellow sodium glare. The rain had stopped, but there were wisps of mist coiling across the road.

It was almost peaceful.

“Right, third gear,” said Angalo, “and a bit faster. Now, what's that sign coming up?”

Grimma and Masklin craned to see.

“Looks like
Road Works Ahead
,” said Grimma in a puzzled voice.

“Sounds good. Let's have some more fast, down there.”

“Yes, but,” said Masklin, “why say it? I mean, you could understand
Road
Doesn't
Work Ahead
. Why tell us it works?”

“Maybe it means they've stopped putting curbs and lights and bushes in it,” said Angalo. “Maybe—”

Masklin leaned over the edge of the platform.

“Stop!” he shouted. “Lots and lots of stop!”

The brake-pedal team looked up in astonishment but obeyed. There was a scream from the tires, yells from the nomes who were thrown forward, and then a lot of crunching and clanging from the front of the truck as it skidded through an assortment of barriers and cones.

“There had better,” said Angalo, when it had finally stopped, “be a very good reason for that.”

“I've hurt my
knee
,” said Gurder.

“There isn't any more road,” said Masklin, simply.

“Of course there's road,” snapped Angalo. “We're on it, aren't we?”

“Look down. That's all. Just look down,” said Masklin.

Angalo peered down at the road ahead. The most interesting thing about it was that it wasn't there. Then he turned to the signaler.

“Can we please have just a wee bit of backward,” he said quietly.

“A smidgen?” said the signaler.

“And none of your cheek,” said Angalo.

Grimma was also staring at the hole in the road. It was big. It was deep. A few pipes lurked in the depths.

“Sometimes,” she said, “I think humans really don't understand anything about the proper use of language.”

She leafed through the
Code
as the truck was reversed carefully away from the pit and, after crushing various things, driven onto the grass until the road was clear.

“It's time we were sensible about this,” she said. “We can't assume anything means what it says. So go slow.”

“I was driving perfectly safely,” said Angalo sulkily. “It's not my fault if things are all wrong.”

“So go slow, then.”

They stared in silence at the rolling road.

Another sign loomed up.

“
Roundabout
,” said Angalo. “And a picture of a circle? Well. Any ideas?”

Grimma leafed desperately through the
Code
.

“I saw a picture of a roundabout once,” said Gurder. “If it's any help. It was in
We Go to the Fair
. It's a big shiny thing with lots of gold and horses on it.”

“I'm sure that's not it,” muttered Grimma, turning the pages hurriedly. “I'm sure there's something in here some—”

“Gold, eh?” said Angalo. “Should be easy to spot, anyway. I think”—he glared at Grimma—“that we can have a little third gear.”

“Right you are, Mr. Angalo sir,” said the signaler.

“Can't see any golden horses,” said Masklin. “You know, I'm not entirely certain—”

“And there should be cheerful music,” said Gurder, pleased to be making a contribution.

“Can't hear any cheer—” Masklin began.

There was the long-drawn-out blast of a car horn. The road stopped and was replaced by a mound covered in bushes. The truck roared up it, all wheels leaving the ground for a moment, then thumped down on the other side of the roundabout and continued a little way, rocking from side to side, on the opposite road. It rolled to a halt.

There was silence in the cab again. Then someone groaned.

Masklin crawled to the edge of the platform and looked down into the frightened face of Gurder, who was hanging on to the edge.

“What happened?” he groaned.

Masklin hauled him back up to safety and dusted him off.

“I think,” he said, “that although the signs mean what they say, what they say isn't what they mean.”

Grimma pulled herself out from underneath the
Code
. Angalo untangled himself from the lengths of string and found himself looking into her furious scowl.

“You,” she said, “are a total idiot. And speed mad! Why don't you
listen
?”

“You can't speak to me like that!” said Angalo, cowering back. “Gurder, tell her she can't call me names like that!”

Gurder sat trembling on the edge of the platform.

“As far as I am concerned right now,” he said, “she can call you what she likes. Go to it, young woman.”

Angalo glowered. “Hang
on
! You were the one who went on about golden horses! I didn't see any golden horses! Did anyone see any golden horses? He confused me, going on about golden horses—”

Gurder waved a finger at him. “Don't you ‘he' me—” he began.

“And don't you ‘young woman' me in that tone of voice!” screamed Grimma.

Dorcas's voice came up from the depths.

“I don't want to interrupt anything,” it said, “but if this happens one more time, there are people down here who will be getting very angry. Is that understood?”

“Just a minor steering problem,” Masklin called down cheerfully. He turned back to the others.

“Now you all look here,” he said quietly. “This arguing has got to stop. Every time we hit a problem, we start bickering. It's not sensible.”

Angalo sniffed. “We were doing perfectly all right until he—”

“Shut up!”

They stared at him. He was shaking with anger.

“I've had just about enough of all of you!” he shouted. “You make me ashamed! We were doing so well! I haven't spent ages trying to make all this happen just for a, a, a
steering committee
to ruin it all! Now you can all get up and get this thing moving again! There's a whole truckload of nomes back there! They're depending on you! Understand?”

They looked at one another. They stood up sheepishly. Angalo pulled up the steering strings. The signaler untangled his flags.

“Ahem,” said Angalo quietly. “I think . . . yes, I think a little bit of first gear might be in order here, if it's all the same to everybody?”

“Good idea. Go ahead,” said Gurder.

“But carefully,” said Grimma.

“Thank you,” said Angalo politely. “Is that all right by you, Masklin?” he added.

“Hmm? Yes. Yes. Fine. Go.”

At least there were no more buildings. The truck purred along the lonely road, its one remaining headlight making a white glow in the mist. One or two vehicles passed them on the other side of the road.

Masklin knew that soon they should be looking for somewhere to stop. It would have to be somewhere sheltered, away from humans—but not too far away, because he was pretty certain there were still plenty of things the nomes were going to need. Perhaps they were going north, but if they were, it would be sheer luck.